The Dúnedan
by modernranger
Summary: Roper is a Dúnedan - a Ranger. As a child he was brought up in the Bree-Land, but after the kidnapping of his brother, Gandalf took him away to join his kin in the protection of West: a solemn calling laid upon the descendants of Isildur. He must learn what it means to be a Ranger - to face hardship and toil for the protection of Middle Earth.
1. Sun and Moon

2885 of the Third Age of Middle Earth was the year Sauron sent the Haradrim to cross the Poros and attack Gondor. The White Tree had been dead and brittle for 33 years – its splendor as forgotten as the absent king. Far to the north and west another turbulent event was happening: they were born on a starless night on the first day of the second month. They made no noise as they came into the world, and their mother made no noise as she left it. On that same starless night, with the winter wind licking at the corners of a blanket which held the two tiny twin boys, a man rode to Archet caring that precious cargo.

The next morning, Lilly Wheatherby, a cheery, short, round woman of thirty or so, rushed to the door at the sound of a most pitiful and plaintive crying. Calling to her husband Hob to leave his breakfast for a spell and come see what the winter wind blew in, she pulled back a weather-worn, forest green blanket. Lying in a basket of close-woven reeds, were twin boys – as like as like could be. Their eyes were the color of a winter sky, their skin as pale as frost, and their hair as dark as a starless night.

Lilly and Hob discussed for a long time what to do with this unexpected package. Hob was doubtful. No good could come of taking in two strange boys who seemed to have blown in with the winter wind. Lilly said that the only thing to do was to bring them into the home as their own – one could not simply ignore them: they would soon die in the elements. Hob thought this was not such a good idea, but he knew better than to argue with his wife so he consented. That is how the children came to be raised in Archet – a small town East of Bree and part of the wide expanse of land known simply as the Bree-Land – though even that was part of the larger land of Eriador.

As the brothers came with no names, they had to be given some. Lilly and Hob were neither very dull nor very witty, but they had little imagination, and names that would be easy to remember were common among their kind. So they called the twins Roper and Robin: not very good names (in fact, they were popular hobbit names), but those are the ones they settled on. Hob and Lilly made no secret of their adoption. It was commonly known gossip in the neighborhood that Hob and Lilly had been unable to have children of their own – and no one, drunk or sober, would believe for a minute that these boys were their children, let alone children of anyone in the Bree-Land.

"Have ye heard?" people said, soon after the arrival of the twins was known. "Strange as news from Bree. Black haired babes, they are," said most. "Got eyes like a storm on the western sea, they have. Bad things will come of it, mark my words."

Old Clem the butcher called the whole affair mighty bizarre. "She opens the door, she does, and there they be, wailing like the winter wind itself," he said one day to Mrs. Tubberford as he wrapped up side of pork for her.

"I've seen them," replied Mrs. Tubberford. "And I will honestly say that I've never seen such children in my life. It's unnatural, if you ask me. Twins! As like as two peas! And if that's not strange enough they've got the most disturbing eyes. And I've never seen hair so black."

The people of Archet and the surrounding areas (being Bree itself, Combe, and Staddle) were a simple people. Short of stature with brown hair and ruddy cheeks, they had an appetite for dark beer and simple, hardy food. They rarely left their homes but loved gossip and news from the outside world. The most common place to pick up such news was the inn in Bree: The Prancing Pony. It was run by a family of good repute called the Butterburs. It was in that comfortable main room, often with a large fire on the hearth and plenty of beer, cheese, and smoke, that news of the outside world was gathered. The Pony (as it was called) faced the North Road that led through Bree (it would be known as the Greenway in swift-coming years) and was a common road used by travelers of all sorts: dwarves, foreign men, and occasionally elves.

Hob traveled almost monthly to the Pony to pick up what bits of news he could (as well as have a few pints of the famed beer). As Roper and Robin grew old enough not to be underfoot, Hob took them along. This was much to the dislike of Lilly who thought an Inn full of dirty drunken travelers was not a good place for six-year-olds.

Over the years the twins had grown quite as much like any other children their ages. The talk had, by this time, died down to a murmur. People still eyed the boys suspiciously, and the other children were generally told to avoid them, but so far no evil had come from their appearance in the neighborhood. The boys seemed quite oblivious of the talk and generally kept to themselves anyway. They played with each other and preferred to be out of doors in trees and in streams. Although to the eye there were as much alike as they had ever been (while Hob had given up trying to tell them apart, Lilly insisted she could tell, though whether this is true is impossible to know), their personalities developed quite differently.

Roper was quiet and controlled. He rarely laughed and never shouted except in great need. He was not quick to anger, though his eyes flashed strangely when something upset him. His smiles were rare gifts that made his grey eyes deepen almost to a blue. He was profoundly moved by nature and cried sometimes when something touched him deeply. Robin was as happy and beautiful as sun in the spring: as opposite in mood to his brother as they were alike in appearance. He was quick to laughter and loved flashing a cheeky grin to get his way. His anger was fierce but quickly burned out as well as the hint of green that appeared in his eyes. He would have footraces with the dogs and make bows and arrows out of tree branches while Roper sat in the boughs above and watch a robin sit on her eggs.

Yet they loved each other more dearly than most siblings. They were extremely protective of each other and rarely quarreled. And they both had an untamable penchant for mischief.

It was in the autumn of their seventh year when Roper and Robin got their first taste of the prancing pony. Hob declared that he would take them to the Pony – that it was high time they had a taste of the outside world. A boy couldn't grow up ignorant of the world outside, was what he said. This was ironic as Hob's world revolved around the Bree-Land, and any thought of leaving his surroundings was absurd. He was a simple farmer, and the strange news that the outside world had to offer about Dark Lords and goblins was something he was interested in only over a pint. Little he knew of the turmoil that lay right on the boundaries of his land.

Archet lay on the borders of the Chetwood, and they were woods almost as strange as The Old Forest on the boarders of Buckland, as people said – or stranger. Yet little had Hob ever had dealing with the wood, or the folk that dwelt therein. He kept to his fields, and he was quite content in his ignorance.

"I don't like you taking the boys all that long distance to Bree," said Lilly, wringing her hands as they packed. She was a stout woman, but the idea of traveling all the way to Bree made her uneasy. She was not ignorant to the special nature of Roper and Robin, and in her heart she feared that her time with them was drawing to a close. She had grown to love them as her own children over the years. Six and a half short years she had had with them, and it seemed all too short. Underneath her simple exterior, wisdom was in her heart. She perceived things that others didn't. Though they were not her own flesh and blood, Lilly had grown to understand Roper and Robin – as much as any mother understands her babes. Yet there was a part of them that she knew was still hidden from her sight: a part of them which was not intended for her understanding. It was this that she feared. For it only meant that they would soon be stripped from her.

It was with a heavy heart that she watched as the three of them, Hob, Roper and Robin go trudging down the road. They had a pony with them to carry the baggage, and it seemed to Lilly that already the twins were fading from her sight. They walked tall – even at their tender age. They were taller than most other lads their age by half a head. Their black hair lay wayward on their foreheads as they waved goodbye. The crisp autumn air played with their hair, and it seemed to Lilly that as Roper extended his hand toward her, winter was crowding in already– all silver blue with the pale light of stars in his eyes. He didn't smile, but she thought she saw a single tear slip down his pale smooth cheek. Robin waved cheerfully, a dimple showing in his grinning face. The leaving falling from the trees about them framed his joyful countenance – like he was Autumn in the likeness of a child, crowned with golden leaves, and honey colored light. They may have looked like two peas in a pod, but they were as different as silver and gold. That was the last Lilly ever saw of that smiling face.


	2. The Prancing Pony

The journey to Bree could be accomplished in a day, and though the twins were very young, Hob was secretly proud to see them trudging along next to him with determination and energy. Robin ran along ahead of the rest, kicking at stones and chasing bewildered rabbits into the tall brown grass that ran along the track. The autumn sun glinted off his black hair which bobbed above the grass like a starling.

"Don't be running off and getting lost," called Hob after him. Despite his misgivings about taking the twins in as babes, he had grown fond of them, and even rather proud. They were taller, faster, and stronger than any of the other Archet boys their age. In his mind, Robin showed more promise. He was outgoing and seemed to Hob the natural leader. He always led the way in all their mischief-making and showed an affinity for fighting. Hob was not a fighter, nor did he believe that it was useful in their part of the world. But he appreciated a boy with pluck. Roper, while just as agile, and more in touch with his surroundings, showed, what Hob perceived to be, less vigor. This showed that he really knew nothing at all about them, or their origin, but Hob was a simple, hardy farm man, and his understanding of the outside world was limited to the talk he heard in Bree.

"Roper," Hob said at length, having lost track of Robin for several minutes. "Go find your brother. He shouldn't be wandering away so near dusk. Your mother will tan my hide if we lose him."

Roper nodded, and without another word, dashed off into the tall grass. He didn't call for his brother, but he stooped low to the ground and looked in every direction. Robin had made no secret as to where he ran, and Ropers developing tracker skills soon showed him the path Robin had made. The grass was bent and broken in a broad path that he had made by stamping his way through.

Roper dashed along this path, his bare feet making little noise even in the brittle grass. It led him back the direction they had come, and some way to the left of the rode. Roper came upon his brother in a few minutes. Robin was sitting on the ground with his legs crossed and his hands on his knees. Laying in the trampled grass in front of him was a small grey rabbit. Its heart was beating wildly, as was evident by its quivering sides. Its front right paw was bent to an unnatural angle.

Roper approached Robin and stood next to him. "What's wrong with it?" Roper asked quietly.

"I… I don't know," replied Robin in a shaky voice. "I didn't mean to hurt it. I just wanted to see if I could hit it with a rock. I think it broke its leg."

"You broke it," replied Roper solemnly. "Now it's going to die because of you."

Robin started crying. Roper knelt down and pulled the rabbit gently onto his lap, stroking its fur.

"It's not fair," said Roper, his chin giving a quiver. "Why did you do that?"

"I didn't mean to, Rope!" wailed Robin. "I am sorry." Robin put his head down on the rabbit in his brother's lap and cried into its fur. "I'm so sorry."

Roper put a hand on his brother's head. "Father will be looking for us," he said. He carried the injured rabbit to a stunted tree a little way off, and laid it in the shade. "Stop crying," he commanded his brother. "Father would be ashamed."

Robin quickly dried his tears though his chin still wobbled slightly. His clear grey eyes were puffy and red but he wiped his face on his sleeve.

Roper put and arm around his brother and they walked quickly back to Hob. They never said a word about what had happened, and Hob didn't think to ask. They soon passed through the deep valley where Combe lay and swallowed up the last few miles of their journey in a couple hours. It was two hours after sunset when they came over the brow of a hill to see the lights of Bree twinkling below them in the distance.

The windows at the Pony were glowing with an inviting warm light. The door was flung back to let in the crisp night air, and the yellow firelight spilled out onto the street. The famous sign-board creaked as it swung in the breeze. The sounds of laughter and singing filled the air, and several people were standing outside and in the entryway talking and smoking. In those days, the Pony was always full of customers bringing the news from far abroad.

It was thus that Roper and Robin first beheld the famed Prancing Pony. Several dwarves bustled past them as Hob led them through the broad entryway. The twins stared in awe. Never had they seen such a variety of people. There were six or seven dwarves smoking by a window, all in travel-stained gear – mud-caked, iron-shod boots up to their knees and richly embroidered, albeit worn hoods thrown back. Their heavily bearded faces looked stern and gruff, but at a joke from one of them, they erupted in a thousand cheery wrinkles. Several groups of hobbits sat at low tables by the fire with brimming tankards of beer in front of them. Most of them seemed to be locals – their tidy waistcoats carefully polished buttons suggested that. But there were several hobbits amongst them who were clearly travelers. They had on travel clothes, and their feet were dusty from the road. Their cheeks were rosy from the exercise and several walking sticks were leaning against the wall. These were the hobbits talking while all the others listened intently. Roper heard the words "Shire" "Buckland" "The Old Forest" and "The Brandywine": words that meant nothing to him, but would someday become very important.

There were also many men about, mostly from the Bree-Land: men who looked like Hob. They were short and brown and broad with good honest faces (for the most part). But there were also several men who looked nothing like the people Roper and Robin had grown up seeing. Three of these men were taller than everyone else. They had shaggy dark hair and grim faces. Their clothing was more travel-worn, and their knee-high boots more caked with mud than anyone's in the room. They wore long dark cloaks and strange swords hung at their sides. One of them was in a group of locals talking about things in the outside world that sounded dark and unpleasant to the twins' ears. The man spoke in a deep rich voice, and his audience was clearly captivated. He gestured and moved about in the space to illustrate his story. At one point he drew a dagger from his belt at quick as lightening, and his listeners gasped and shrank back. Then with a flick of his wrist, the tall man had it sheathed again as his story moved on, and his listeners chuckled nervously – unable to look away. The other two men like him sat in the furthest corner from the fire watching with their long legs stretched out in front of them. They seemed amused at their companion's storytelling, and chuckled amongst themselves.

There was one other person in the company of the two men (though sitting a little apart) that looked utterly out of place. He was not as tall as the dark-haired men, but he was still a good deal taller than the locals of Bree. His long robe and cloak were dark grey and spattered with mud. He wore high, heavy, black boots and had a long grey beard. He wore no hat, but there was a tall walking stick or staff leaning on the chair on which he sat. His eyebrows stuck out from above a pair of keen eyes. He was evidently enjoying the story, and chuckled to himself as he smoked a long-stemmed pipe.

Suddenly something caught his eye, and he turned his gaze upon the twins. His smile faded and he removed his pipe from his mouth. Robin didn't notice the man watching. He was mesmerized by the tall man's story. But Roper, who had been gazing at the old man, found he was being studied intently in return. He went to move behind Hob, but found he and his brother had been left quite alone. Hob had moved off to join a group of locals with a massive tankard in his hand. The twins suddenly felt very small in a world of big people. They were in a little island in the middle of the room, quite unnoticed by everyone – except the old man. Roper nudged his brother, and Robin looked over, catching sight of the old man almost at once.

"What is he?" he whispered nervously to his brother. "Why does he stare at us so?"

"I don't know," answered Roper.

They continued to look at the old man, and the old man continued to look at them. Each eyeing the other intently. Finally the old man, with the faintest nod of his head, invited them to join him and his companions. Roper led the way with Robin close behind, until they stood right in front of the old man. He looked at them from under his bushy brows.

"Good evening," he said in so low a voice not even his companions noticed, and the boys had to strain to hear. "My name," he continued "is Gandalf."


	3. Kidnapped

Roper and Robin stood in awe at the feet of the strange old man.

"What are your names?" He asked in the low voice.

"I'm Roper. And this is my brother Robin."

"Twins," replied Gandalf with a strange glint in his eyes. "Those are unusual names for boys like you. Who is your father?"

Roper pointed to Hob. "Hob Weatherby. But he is not our father by blood. He is our foster father."

After glancing briefly at the stout farmer, Gandalf nodded. "Yes, that is quite evident," he said. "And you do not know where you came from before that? Have they told you nothing?"

"Told us nothing about what?" demanded Robin, very suspicious.

Gandalf said nothing in reply but sat back and stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I suppose they do not even know the answer to that," he murmured to himself. He glanced over at his companions and called their attention. They had strange names that Roper and Robin had never heard the likes of before. "Avathar, Barad," said Gandalf. The two men turned their heads to Gandalf but locked their eyes on the twins as soon as they saw them.

"These are Roper and and Robin – the twins from Archet by the Chetwood." Gandalf seemed to know all about them.

"Indeed they are," said Avathar, with a strange smile on his face, as if he were remembering something lovely from a long ago past. He was a little shorter and a little broader than Barad, and his low brows almost concealed a pair of icy eyes. He had a long scar that cut through his face running from his left cheek slantways through his lips and off his chin. It had been a mighty wound when it was inflicted. His appearance was dark and foreboding and the boys shrank back under his scrutiny.

"Where is your father, the Bree man?" he asked.

Roper again pointed out Hob in the crowd (he was looking a little worse for the wear from the drink).

"Oh yes, I see him now."

"He had better stop that drinking if he knows what's good for him," said Barad. He had a clear voice and a fair pale face, though there were many lines of hard toil written there.

"Who are you?" asked Robin. "How do you know so much about us?"

"I told you who I am," said Gandalf. "These men are Dúnedain. As are you. But that is a tale for another time."

All of this was very unsettling to the twins. Not only did they not know what was meant by _Dúnedain,_ but they did not know why it was so openly known that they dwelt in Archet near the Chetwood. It was quite above their six-year-old heads.

There was no time to talk more, for at that moment Hob was heard bellowing for the twins. Apparently there had been call for a song, and Hob, in his drunken state was boasting quite loudly of the skills of Roper and Robin in singing. Most people in the Inn had not even noticed the boys come in, and it seemed to them that Hob had had more than was good for him. People rarely brought children to the Pony, and it was further doubted that this red-faced farmer could produce children that any much talent in anything. Hob had the feeling he was being laughed at, and in his need for justice, went stamping through the Inn looking for his boys.

When he found them in the dark corner conversing with the two dark-haired men and Gandalf, he grabbed their arms and pulled them aside, roughly. The Rangers (as the boys found out the three dark-haired men were called) were not trusted in Bree. People loved the tales they told, but they were regarded as odd and untrustworthy. Gandalf was largely believed to be a wizard of unknown power, and while he was more generally accepted, he kept company with the Rangers and that was enough for suspicion. Hob was a superstitious man, and he quite believed all the rumors.

"I turn my back for one minute, and you be causing trouble already!" he bellowed.

"We didn't mean anything by it!" protested Robin, trying to wriggle away from the pincer-like grasp of Hob.

"Well you just stay away from those men, you hear?" said Hob, angrily. "They are trouble-makers, and I don't want either of you taking up with the likes of them." Robin made an angry promise (he did not like getting "talked to" by Hob and he resented his harsh treatment. Roper remained quiet.

"A song! A song!" shouted the company. "Common Hob! Let 'em go! They didn't mean no harm. We want a song!"

"Well, boys," said Hob loudly and cheerily for the whole room to hear. "What'll it be?"

So it was that Roper and Robin found themselves placed on a table in the middle of the room looking down on a crowd of dirty, sweaty, drunken men, dwarves, and hobbits. Murmurs started going round.

"Like as two peas in a pod," they said.

"Why, there ain't no difference between 'em!"

"How strange they look. I've never seen such dark hair," said some.

"Hair?" said others. "Look at them eyes. They give me the shivers." Suspicion fell on Hob and the boys, but the chance of hearing a tune was not lightly thrown aside, and with a little more urging (mostly from Hob) the twins started a song. It was one known in Archet at all the pubs and had many themes and topics known to the Bree-Landers; and it was set to a familiar tune.

"The Chetwood's a place that's mightily queer,

And the folk that dwell there are queerer,"

Said Bob one night in a tavern old

While clutching a tankard of beer.

The folk all around him laughed and roared

And told him he was a loon.

"There's naught in the forest but squirrels and deer,

You better run home now and soon.

"Your wife'll know you been drinkin late

If you talk like that to her.

And we all know what sort of woman is she

And she'll beat you quite senseless for sure."

Bob hung his head with a countenance of shame

And trudged with a sigh out the door.

Deciding to go the shortest way home,

He walked through the Chet – and was seen no more.

Now people can't say if the wood or his wife

Was the reason old Bob's up and gone.

Were it she that offed him for his bouts of drink,

Or the dear little squirrel and the fawn?

The song ended and wild applause went up. Not only did the words tickle their fancy, but the song was so familiar that by the end the crowd was clapping along. On top of that, never had they seen anything like these two twins, singing in perfect unison together – it made them roar with delight. Robin bowed deeply, grinning slyly and absolutely eating up the attention. Roper smiled mildly and nodded. Hob was very pleased with himself, and many people slapped him on the back and said he was a sly old fox for producing such boys.

The twins clambered down from the table and were soon forgotten again – or so they thought. Roper looked over to the dark corner where Gandalf, Avathar, and Barad sat. The two men (and their third storyteller friend) were gone, but Gandalf was still there, tucked further into the corner than before. The only sign that showed he was still there was the glow from his pipe which illuminated his keen eyes. He was watching Roper. With careful precision, Gandalf blew a green smoke ring that snuck around the corner of the hearth and up the chimney. Roper stood in amazement. He had never seen magic, and up until this point, didn't believe it existed.

His thoughts were interrupted by a change in the tone of the noise about him. The joking and merriment around him was growing harsh, and the laughter died out. Soon people were yelling, and Roper had to jump aside to avoid being crushed by a fat Bree-man as he fell to the ground with a broken nose. A brawl had broken out. Mr. Butterbur was pulling a dwarf and a man apart as they reached for weapons. Most of the hobbits had cleared out (someone was bound to get stepped on). The brawl seemed mainly to be between the men and the dwarves. Crockery was being smashed, beer was on every wall, and the sounds of fists on faces rent the air.

Roper could not understand what was being shouted, nor did he have any idea what the fight was about, but his quick young eyes soon noticed three things almost at the same time: the first was a large dwarf that was moving towards him with a glint in his eyes, the second was a sharp cry from Robin as he was dragged out the back door by another dwarf, and the third thing Roper saw was his adopted father Hob fall to the ground with a knife in his back. Blood pooled on the ground under him, looking black in the firelight. Roper opened his mouth to cry out, but the noise never left him. There was a blinding flash of white light which sent everyone to the ground, and Roper was grabbed by strong arms from behind and carried outside. The flash had made Roper see stars, and he could not tell who had grabbed him, but he kicked wildly.

"Stop fighting me," commanded the deep voice of the wizard, as he draped Roper over the saddle of a horse and climbed up behind him. "I just saved your life. We must flee. They will be after us as soon as they know you are gone. They have taken your brother, and I do not know where. But my friends will do their best to find him. Right now you must be calm and trust me." Gandalf spurred his horse into the darkness. Roper looked back at the Inn with the sound of his screaming brother and the image of Hob lying in his blood flashing through his mind.


	4. Under the Chetwood

The cold night air whistled in Roper's ears as Gandalf spurred his horse over hill and dale. Back, back to Archet they rode, and whether by some measure of luck, or the skills of Gandalf, they met with no opposition on the road. It was about three in the morning when they rode up to the door of the Weatherby's. Roper had said nothing during the entire ride, but Gandalf had not needed any direction to find the right house. The lights were out, and all was quiet. Roper started to shiver. Every muscle was taught as a bowstring. His chin quivered but his eyes were dry.

Gandalf dismounted, swung Roper to the ground and walked up to the door. He tapped lightly with the butt of his staff. A few moments passed before a light appeared. The door opened a crack, and the frightened face of Lilly appeared. She was startled to see the old man at her door, but as soon as she saw Roper, she flung the door open with a gasp and he ran to her arms, the tears finally coming. He sobbed and sobbed and his whole frame shook.

"What's the meaning of this?" she demanded, looked terrified and very suspicious of Gandalf.

"These are not matters to discuss on the front porch, I think," said Gandalf, quietly. "But let me say that I saved this child from his brother's fate."

Lilly gasped, and her eyes grew wide. "Come in," she said weakly.

Gandalf entered the little house and lit another lamp. Then he kindled the embers of the old fire, and set the kettle on. Lilly was silent. She had seated herself in a chair by the fire with Roper curled up on her lap. She waited, knowing somehow that her questions would be answered. After Gandalf had poured her a cup of tea (Roper was still crying softly in her shawl), he poured one for himself and sat down in the chair next to hers.

He told her the tale of that evening from beginning to end in perfect detail. She listened quietly. Tears started spilling down her face when he spoke of the kidnapping of Robin and the death of Hob.

"I would have saved Robin if I could," said Gandalf. "But we were not expecting so an open an attack. I could only manage to get Roper out in time and delay a pursuit. But they will not be far behind, and they now know where you live. Now I must fill in the gaps of the story. I will make it very brief for this is not talk for a time like this. But you must know why Roper must leave straightaway."

Lilly choked but said nothing, clutching Roper closer.

"There is a small but strong and haughty family of dwarves that live in the Misty Mountains," began the wizard. "They keep to themselves and rarely leave their stone halls. Eight years ago however, one of their young lords traveled down into Eriador and stole something from one of the Dúnedain – the race of men you call rangers. Quite unknown to most Bree-Landers, the Dúnedain are the remnants of a royal people: descended from a long line of ancient kings. Until it is their time to rise again, it is their calling to protect Eriador.

"It was one of these men from whom the dwarf called Mith stole a sword. I need not go into the long lineage of that sword for we would be here well into the afternoon, but it was an heirloom which should not have been taken. The Dúnedan to whom it belonged hunted for the dwarf for seven months before he found him and slew him. Since then, Mith's family have had a vendetta against that Dúnedan and it is their law that they avenge their fallen brother by destroying the murderer and his kin.

"This Dúnedan kept hidden from the dwarves, though it was hard work for they are a crafty people with many spies in their service. A short time after the death of Mith, the man's wife became pregnant. At the end of her time she gave birth – to twins – but died in childbirth. The new father took a great risk in coming out into the open to take the children to safe place. He knew he had not the skill to care for them as a hunted man, and he could not risk a journey to Rivendell (a place where many children of the Dúnedain are brought up). So he took them to a farmer and his wife in the village of Archet on the edge of the Chetwood – the closest place to his home that would be safe. He was just in time, for the dwarves had, that night, found his home in the wood and laid in ambush for him. They slew him upon his return, and he fell beside his wife who was not yet cold in death.

"The dwarves then saw their grave mistake. They understood a birth had taken place, and the child was nowhere near. They had come upon a cold trail. They dared not search the villages, and they went home to think through their plan again. During these six years, other rangers have been keeping guard over the Chetwood, and more importantly over the twins. It was decided that they were, for the time, as safe as they could be, living with you and Hob. Yesterday, however, news came to us that the dwarves were moving this way, and it was understood that they had discovered the hiding place of the twins. Hob and the children had already left for the Prancing Pont, and we knew that is where the dwarves would make their attempt. We were not expecting them to make open assault on the Inn itself, however. They started the brawl as a distraction. My friends and I made a grave miscalculation of the method of the kidnapping. Yes, kidnapping. I do not think Robin is dead. The will probably keep him as a slave. But my friends will do their best to recover him before they get a mile out of Bree.

"But now I must take Roper with me. He cannot stay with you. There will be someone watching your home to keep you safe until everything is settled, but Roper cannot be here any longer. He is not a Bree-Lander. He is a Dúnedan, and it is his calling to join his kin in the watching of the Western World. When we find Robin, we will send you word, but he will join his brother in the guardianship of Middle Earth."

The entire time Gandalf had been talking, Lilly had sat silent. Tears streamed in silent rivulets down her face.

"He is all I have left," she said, barely managing a whisper. "Will you take him from me too?" Roper lay still in her arms.

Gandalf looked troubled and said nothing, but sat in his own thoughts. Finally it was Roper who spoke. Tears were wet on his beautiful smooth cheeks. He took Lilly's face in his little hands.

"I will find Robin," he said solemnly. He kissed her and wrapped his arms around her neck. Lilly sobbed and held him close, but he wriggled away and stepped next to Gandalf. "I am ready," he said quietly.

A new wonder came into Gandalf's eyes as he stared at the child. He nodded and stood, taking Roper's hand.

Lilly – bravest of Bree-Land women knelt in front of her foster son and looked into his eyes. She saw a deep understanding and wisdom there, and it gave her hope. She gathered his extra clothes and put them in a pack. Then, from out of an old chest in the corner, she drew a green blanket and handed it to him.

"Here," she said. "You and your brother were wrapped in this when we found you. It must have been your father's. Go quickly. My heart cannot take more, and I feel danger is right behind."

"Good-bye, Mother," said Roper raising his palm to her. "I will visit as often as I am able."

With that, he and Gandalf went into the night. They rode toward the long line of trees marking the edge of the Chetwood. Lilly stood at the doorway weeping.

The next morning, Roper woke and found he was sleeping on a bed of moss in a low, dry, dirt-floored hut. There was only one window – high in one wall, which let in morning light, and the walls were made of dirt as well. There was a little fire in the middle of the room, and the smoke escaped from a small hole in the ceiling. Shelves of provisions lines the walls. Meat and herbs hung from the ceiling and there were barrels of potatoes, and apples in the corners of the room.

Roper sat up and found he had been wrapped in his father's green blanket. Memories of the night before came flooding back in, and his heart ached, but there were no more tears left in him. He was utterly drained. Gandalf was nowhere in sight. Roper sat wondering mournfully what would become of him in this new life and what it would all mean. He wanted his brother back. He was in the middle of his wondering, when Avathar walked in. He was as gruesome in the morning as he was at night, but his eyes were kind.

"Did you sleep well, Roper?" he asked. He stirred a pot which was cooking over the fire and dished up a bowl of hot oatmeal and handed it to Roper. Roper took it but just looked at it, hopelessly.

"We have not found your brother, yet," continued Avathar. The dwarves were cunning and set many traps for us. We fought them all the way to the eastern edge of the Far Chetwood. The pursuit is still going on, but Gandalf called me back to look after you. The may make it back to their mountains ere we can catch them. But do not give up hope. Not all is lost. Eat now. You are weak from sorrow and must regain your strength."

Roper took a bite. It was not delicious, but he instantly felt strength flow into his limbs, and he revived a little.

"Where am I?" he asked at length.

"You are in the heart of the Far Chetwood," was the reply. This is a bunker for us Rangers to use at need. Most of us do not have permanent homes – leastwise not what you are used to. This was at one time, however, your father's. And it was as much a home as a Ranger could ask for in those days. He did not wander as far as some of us. He looked after the lands from the Eastern edge of the Chet to Bree and did not often travel further. I will take you through the wood very soon. You must learn our ways now. It is our duty to protect Eriador, but you will learn much more of that in time."

"Where is Gandalf?" asked Roper.

Avathar laughed wryly. "Gandalf? Who knows. He left shortly after he brought you here. He may have joined in the search for your brother, but he is a strange old man and has many errands which take him further abroad than even I have been. Do no meddle in the affairs of wizards. Look for him when you least expect it."

This made no sense to Roper, but before he could say anything else, a door opened in the ceiling. Roper, for the first time, noticed a narrow set of stairs cut into the dirt wall. The hut was actually a hole in the ground; though certainly not a hobbit hole (it was not nearly that pleasant). Through this trap door came a woman. Roper stared in wonder, for, to his young eyes, she seemed the most beautiful woman he had ever beheld. Her dark hair was braided in long tresses down her back. She wore a gown of the color of the autumn leaves of the wood which shifted and changed hue when she moved. Her grey eyes were framed by dark lashes and bold brows. Her skin was like cream and her frame tall and slender. He thought for a moment she was an elf, but she walked up to Avathar and kissed him affectionately before turning to Roper.

"This is my wife, Hareth," said Avathar, and Roper was struck with awe.

"Good morning, Roper," she said smiling. "You are very brave to have come here. Do not worry for your brother, for I hear you are alike not only in appearance, but in determination and spirit."

A noise at the top of the stair interrupted her. A small girl about five years old had appeared at the opening of the bunker. She was as alike to Hareth as could be imagined, except her hair was wild from the wind and filled with autumn leaves. She was dressed in green and brown and there was a silver brooch set with a green stone on her shoulder.

"Lórellin," said the woman. "Come and meet Roper."

The little girl approached him and looked at him with a curious expression. Her eyes were a seething grey-green, like the sea after a storm.

"Roper is a hobbit name," she stated.

"Lórellin is stranger," he said – not sure why he did. He should have kept quiet. This imp made him nervous.

"Not so," said she. "I will call you Rána instead. You wandered in last night." She thought for a moment longer. "And you remind me of the moon," she added. "I am leaving now. For a long time. Goodbye."

"Where are you going?" asked Roper, a strange sinking feeling in his heart.

"Rivendell," she replied with relish. "I am going to live with the elves until I am older. Father thinks it isn't safe here right, now and I shall learn much from Lord Elrond and the Lady Arwen."

Hareth smiled and bade Roper farewell. "May we meet again someday under forest glade, Rána," she said. She stared for a moment longer in silence. Her eyes welled up and she turned from him.

Lórellin waved farewell. Avathar walked them out and Roper was left to his thoughts. Lórellin was cemented in his mind, and he thought it was a great shame she had to leave. He felt so alone. There was a thudding noise of hooves and harnesses as they rode away.

It was many years before he saw her again.


	5. Hunting Orcs

Roper grew strong in body and mind under the Chetwood. Avathar was a devoted and skilled teacher, and Roper honed his natural skills in hunting and tracking, in herb lore and the histories of many races of Middle Earth. He learned the tongues of the elves and often went among them and spoke with them and learned things of deep and sometimes dark origin.

Robin had never been found. The Rangers had overtaken the dwarves and slew them, but Robin was not in their company, and despite the great skills of the Men of the North, they could not find his trail. Roper had taken it very hard and threw himself into learning the ways of the Dúnedain. He was permitted to visit Lilly (though Avathar was in hiding close by) and give her the news. She wept bitterly, but held Roper close. He had felt then and there, that he must move into his new life. He kissed her farewell and said that he would be watching over her as he grew but that she would not see him. He said to tell the neighbors that he had died alongside his brother.

Lilly died later that year and all ties to that old life were severed. Roper was no longer a boy from Archet. He took the name Rána and stepped into his role and Dúnedan Ranger.

***  
It was in the early autumn of his nineteenth year and Rána was on a perimeter sweep of Eriador. He had traveled from his home in the Far Chetwood south over the Weather Hills toward the watch tower of Amon Sûl. There had been word that a band of orcs was wandering down from the Misty Mountains and Avathar had sent him to meet with Barad who dwelt in those parts to drive them back.

Rána had grown tall – taller than Barad – and though he still had the willowy frame of youth, his arms and legs were already hardened from long travel and grim roads. His black hair was shaggy and his eyes were as keen as ever. They had been sharpened by his life as a hunter and watcher and his ears were sharp. Some said he had almost the skill of an elven hunter. He was a quiet young man, prone to bouts of moodiness, though he rarely got angry. He was fierce in battle and had slain many orcs, wargs, and even a troll by his eighteenth birthday.

He had been traveling two days when he came to Amon Sûl or Weathertop as was its common name – the designated meeting place. A thin stream of smoke rose from the southern side as Rána approached and he guessed it was Barad. Dusk was falling as Rána reached the roots of the ancient tower hill. He dismounted and unsaddled his horse, allowing it to wander off in search of grass. Shouldering the saddle and his pack, he walked cautiously around to the southern side. Rangers were not the only ones who used Weathertop as a meeting place, and there had been more than one skirmish between the Men of the West and wolves or men or orcs. In these later years, the skirmishes were becoming more and more frequent as the road was less and less traveled by ordinary folk. Rána hid his saddle in a well-concealed nook in the hill and crept up to where the camp was pitched. It was indeed Barad. He was sitting in a little hollow at the base of the hill with his back to the slopes and his face out to the coming night.

Rána didn't call out to him, however, but continued creeping up to the camp. The light was now very dim and Barad's fire cast a long shadow on the hill behind him.

"Don't make me shoot you, Moon Boy," said Barad without looking over. Rána was slightly disappointed that he had been caught, but he was still young and Barad was a seasoned hunter.

"Surely you would not shoot your own kin on the eve of battle," said Rána with a chuckle sitting down next to Barad in the firelight.

"Surely I would," replied Barad. He smiled at the young man and held out his hand in greeting. "It is well met, kinsman," he said. "How goes it in the Chetwood?"

"All is well," was the reply. "We drove out a small pack of wolves last month. They had traveled into the heart of the wood and were working their way toward Archet. Celos and his people helped us drive them as far as the roots of the mountains. The elves have little love for wolves in their homeland."

"You spend much time with the elves of the Chet?" asked Barad.

"A little. What time I can," said Rána. I am often abroad of late. Gandalf came to the wood in the spring and I rode with him to Mirkwood. Thranduil's people have been in fierce fighting with wargs at their western border. Gandalf went to offer council, and I went to slay wargs with the elves." There was a twinkle in Rána's eyes. "And you?" he continued. "How are things in the Lone Lands? I cannot pretend to have much love of all this open space," he said looking above him to the first stars. "I feel laid bare in these lands. I do not see how you abide it."

"That is where we differ," said Barad laughing. "You cannot stand open space, and I cannot stand a stifling forest. One cannot sneak up on me in the open – as you found out."

Rána had no argument, so he just nodded.

"And after we drive these orcs back to the mountains (or slay them all as is more likely) where are you off to?" asked Barad offering Rána some stew he was cooking over his fire.

Rána shrugged and took a mouthful of the food before answering. "I have not decided. Gandalf wishes me to look in on the Shire. I have never been that far west. The Barrow Downs mark the extent of my travels in that direction. But Gandalf seems to think the Shire important, and he seems to think it would suit me well to steer my ship in that direction. I do not know why. The Shire has always seemed so quaint and rather primitive in my mind. They are odd folk, the Shire hobbits."

Barad laughed then, a loud, long laugh which startled Rána. "You sound like a regular Bree-Lander!" he snorted. "There is a little of that in you, no matter how deep you hide it! The Shire hobbits are no queerer than your Bree hobbits or Staddle hobbits or any hobbits. In fact, the Shire is as beautiful a country as you could ask for. And the beer they brew there is good enough to rival the Pony, or better, in parts. It does not surprise me, though, that Gandalf wishes for you to go there. He is always thinking of the halflings. He seems to think they are mighty important in the world. I do not know why he thinks this, but I do not argue with wizards. His knowledge extends past mine." Barad stretched his long legs out in front of him and laid back on his pack with his hood pulled over his face. "Personally," he said said yawning, "I would be glad to take a little trip to the Shire. It's peaceful there and the worst that usually happens is someone drowns themself in the river, or the trees attack the hedge on the border of Buckland."

"The trees?" asked Rána lifting a brow.

"Aye. Old Man Willow is a mighty singer, or so I hear, and the Withywindle is a river not to be tampered with. But old Bombadil is the one you should ask – if you can find him. You keep first watch." And with that, Barad rolled over and went to sleep.

The next morning, after a hurried breakfast, Rána and Barad whistled for their horses and struck out east along the Road for a few miles before turning off and heading south into the wild. They were not more than three hours into their hunt when they picked up the trail of the orcs. They followed the rancid scent for five or six miles. It ran east to west – heading toward the Bree-Land. At about three in the afternoon, they came upon the orc camp.

The orcs had found a large mound of boulders in the hillsides of the east end of the South Downs, and in the shade of these they had made their camp for the day, fearing and loathing the sunlight. Rána and Barad dismounted silently and drew their bows and loosed their swords in their sheathes. They also took each a thick blanket and doused it in water from their water skins. There were twenty or so orcs – little more than a roving band spying the land and looking for homes to loot or sheep to carry away.

With a nod of his head, Barad gave the word and they split up, circling around the boulders. The grass was long and brown and the Rangers were almost invisible. At the same time, they struck flint into the long grass and a blaze started. With the guidance of the Rangers, it spread in a circle around the orc camp until it was surrounded. The orcs woke with the smell of fire in their nostrils. In their confusion, and unable to see well in the blazing sunlight, they panicked and ran this way and that, trying to orient themselves. From there, it was easy to pick them off one by one with arrows and cut them down as they ran through the fire. In less than fifteen minutes, every last orc was slain. Rána and Barad stamped and smothered the flames with their soaked blankets, beating the fire until it was nothing more than charred grass.

The rest of the afternoon was spent piling rocks over the carcasses. The orcs had nothing of value with them, and their ugly and crude gear was buried with them. At the end of the day, the men were sweaty, dusty, and disheveled.

"Well, Moon Boy," said Barad, strapping his sword to his saddle. "Where have you decided to go? My road lies back the way we have come. Will you go with me and to your home in the Chet, or do our paths sever here?"

Rána sat silent for a minute and wiped a trail of sweat from his face. He was stripped to the waist, and the crisp autumn breeze dried the sweat on his back, leaving trails in the dirt. He hated feeling dusty. He longed for the cover of trees and filtered sunlight through golden leaves. He sighed, getting up and tightening his saddle.

"Our paths must part here," he said. "I shall do as Gandalf requested. I will go to the Shire. And perhaps," he said almost to himself. "I will see this Old Forest. This Bombadil."

Barad nodded. "So be it," he said. "Stop in at the Pony, for old time's sake. Their beer improves with the years. And," he said, and his voice held warning. "Mind the Forest. I was not jesting about the willow man. I have never been that far into the wood myself – I do not do well amidst trees for a long while (especially bitter trees who do not love the two-footed), but I have heard strange things all the same. You are wise, strong, and wary, but you are yet young and have not been tested over much. Keep your head, and I think you will come out alright."

Barad threw his arms around Rána and pulled him into a hug. They rarely saw each other, but ever since the fateful night at the Inn, he had felt an affection for Rána which only grew over the years. Rána was like a younger brother to him, and it haunted him that he had failed to find Robin.

He watched as Rána mounted and set off, going northwest toward Bree. With a look at the sky for the time, Barad turned his horse and went north to the Road.


	6. The River-Woman's Daughter

It was a two day ride to Bree and Rána was in no hurry to get there. He did not enter the town itself, however, but skirted around its southern edge. People viewed the Rangers with suspicion and regarded them as trouble-makers. And for some reason, Rána found that he received more unfriendly stares than most. Many of the Rangers were weather-worn and hard, and any sign of their noble lineage was hidden under layers of mud and toil.

The people of Bree were accustomed to seeing weary travelers, and though the Men of the North could in no way be mistaken for anything but Rangers, they somehow fit somewhere in the shadows of the Pony without much trouble. Rána, however, was still young. And though his years of bitter sorrow started early, and he had much care laid upon him as a child which aged him beyond his years, he was not yet as battle-hardened as many of his kin. His face was still young and smooth. No matter how many weeks and months he spent in the sun, it had little effect upon his fair visage. The Dúnedain were blessed with long life, it it took many years for their bodies to age. Rána had not yet experienced enough toil for his face to show it. This, along with his especially keen grey eyes and the fact that he towered over every other Bree-Lander, made him as object of extreme mistrust. Even in the Inn at Bree, he had trouble blending in.

Not only that, but the Inn reminded him sharply of Robin. He blamed himself for not keeping an eye on him. He had always kept an eye on his brother. He blamed himself for not finding him later. But any attempt he had made had fallen onto a dead end. He was convinced that his beloved brother, and the only friend he had ever had, was dead.

From outside the western gate, Rána could smell the many fires of many cozy houses, and the many meals that were being eaten there. His stomach growled and he frowned. He wanted food… and drink. He considered for a moment risking scrutiny for a meal at the Inn – their beer really was unsurpassed in the area – but a look at gate and he decided against it and rode on. Night was coming fast, but he did not mind. He knew this area well had good vision in the dark.

He was not over anxious to get to the Shire, but he had heard many strange tales about Tom Bombadil from the elves and Gandalf, and he wanted to walk in the Old Forest and see the Willow. Second only to the forest of Fangorn, the Old Forest on the borders of Buckland was the oldest wood in Middle Earth. It was the remnants of a great forest which once stretched all the way from the western edge of Isengard. The things that Barad had told him had pricked his interest. And it was high time he was under the cover of trees again.

Rána stopped about midnight and built a small fire about a hundred yards from the road in the cover of some scrubby bushes. He was on the outskirts of the Barrow Downs, and it would be foolhardy to try to pass over them at night. He ate a meager meal of _cram_ and water – hardly satisfactory, but hunting would be more inconvenient than it was worth at that hour. He lay back on his cloak and looked through the branches of the bushes at the stars ahead. He knew them all. They were the night guide to the Dúnedain. Rána picked out Eärendil's Star. It shone brightly in the west over the sea. There was also Soronúmë – the Eagle of the West. It was said that Varda had placed that constellation there. Elbereth – the most beautiful of all the Valar.

Lórellin came to his mind: Avathar's daughter whom Rána had met only once, so many years before. He didn't know why, but that meeting had stuck in his mind, and he had never forgotten her. The way her windblown hair had been filled with the autumn leaves had enthralled him. He had been to Rivendell several times, but he had never seen her there, and he had felt too foolish to ask about her. It was she who had named him Rána – the wanderer – the moon. Somehow he felt she was near and, deep down, he longed to see her again. It had been twelve years, and more and more often of late, Rána had found himself thinking of her.

He shifted uncomfortably. The thought of her made him feel vulnerable and laid bare. He sighed, irritated with his own mind and rolled over, shutting the stars and Lórellin out of his mind.

The next morning dawned, but the sun was shrouded in heavy clouds. He was not keen on passing over the downs in rain, for the barrow-wights were powerful and sometimes very hard to escape. He had been the the downs a total of three times, and then only briefly. The first time, he was ten years old. Barad had taken him to survey the East-West road. Barad had taken him there to show him the great standing barrows and tell him of their history and origin – as far as his knowledge went. The second and third times Rána had been there was only in passing by on the east side.

Now he set out over them. His heart beat quickly at first. Images of dark shadowy figures rising out the ground filled his mind. He could almost feel the hands of dead warriors and kings clutch at him with cold, clammy grips. But as the morning passed and turned into afternoon, there was no sign of any wights, though a cold feeling of dread was slowly creeping into his heart. The dark eastern edge of the Old Forest loomed up ahead, and Rána was glad to see it.

The feeling of dread grew more and more quickly as he worked his way to the wood. He could almost feel himself pursued by an ancient army. He spurred his horse the last two hundred yards to the first of the trees, but he halted at the border. The trees were dark and thick; he turned and faced the Downs. His horse was uneasy. Its ears pricked and twitched this way and that, not liking the Downs or the forest. Rána dismounted. Taking only his sword, bow and arrows, and small leather pack, he sent his horse off alone to find its way home or go where it willed.

He had decided to traverse the forest on foot – knowing there would be many paths a full-sized horse could not walk. With one more look at the Downs, Rána plunged into the woods, heading west. The interlaced boughs of the trees blocked out the sky, and the air soon became heavy and warm. Rána struck out west, not knowing where he was going, but heading more or less towards the border of Buckland. There was no noise in the forest save the soft crackle of falling leaves and the occasional bird or chatter of a squirrel, but Rána was aware of a presence in the wood – or perhaps the wood itself. Although inaudible to his mortal ear, Rána was aware of whisperings: a gentle hum of trees talking to trees. It flowed through root and twig, behind him and ahead of him. He was fascinated. But he soon perceived that the whisperings held bitterness. The rustle of the leaves was filled with malice. Rána found himself walking quickly and quietly, blending into bark and leaf as much as possible. But no matter where he went, or how silently, the feeling of hate around him grew until the woods were shrieking it – in total immeasurable silence. Rána was overjoyed to finally see what looked like a path opened up on front of him.

Had he known much more about the Old Forest, he would have been more skeptical about that path, but he knew only what he had heard – and it wasn't nearly enough. Soon the path died out and Rána was left standing at the edge of a tiny rivulet in a bank of red clay. The stream led away south, and Rána had the distinct feeling that he should not follow it, but keep on straight west. Again he found the path, and he eagerly followed it. It ran west for a time, but soon turned southward. Rána considered leaving the narrow track, but the trees had grown impenetrably thick and dark on either side. Hardly any sunlight broke through the roof of boughs, and Rána began to wish for its reassuring light. He decided at last to continue along the path. He was in no hurry to get anywhere, and this forest was clearly trying to lead him somewhere.

All of a sudden, there was a terrific cracking sound behind him as a thick oaken bough came crashing down across the path only a few feet from his heels. Rána spun around quick as lightening, drawing his sword. There was no more sound, but the trees resented him and his bright blade, and he could feel them drawing in. He put away his sword quickly and continued down the path.

He traveled in this manner for several hours, his long legs eating up the ground in front of him. The path leg him south, and downhill – into the heart of the wood. The ground started to grow soft and boggy. More rivulets started running by him, and the sound of water was mingled with the sound of falling leaves – and there were willows: hundreds of them. All ancient, all gnarled, all aflutter with yellow leaves rustling in the breeze. Rána wondered at them. He had never in his life seen so many. It was beautiful, and melancholy, and foreboding all at the same time. And then, quite suddenly, Rána came out of the trees. To his surprise, the sun was shining bright above him. A warm, tired, breeze kissed his face, and the air was filled with yellow willow leaves floating like a million yellow butterflies. And there, stretching before his feet, a lazy brown river was drifting by. Its surface was covered with willow leaves and it made no noise as it slipped past his feet: it was the Withywindle, and he was in the heart of the Withywindle Valley.

Rána stood in awe. He had never experienced a wood which was so alive. Every leaf and twig was alive. Every root connected to the next – speaking, sending messages, sharing secrets. Rána walked along the bank of the river, careful not the touch the water. He did not trust its smooth, slow, brown waters, but he was curious. There were many things to be learned here, if only there were someone to teach them to him.

As he walked, he came upon a larger stream which fed the river. Turning away from the Withywindle, and not knowing why this particular stream drew his attention, he decided to follow it. With the utmost care and silence, he followed the stream. Not even the dry leaves underfoot made more than a tiny crackle. The rivulet led him southeast for several hundred paces. The trees were still thick, but they were less menacing and there were no willows. Soft green grass grew on either side of the stream and all was silent. Finally, through the trees, he saw a pool. It was about twenty feet wide and its water was green and so murky nothing could be seen below its surface. On its smooth face grew many white water-lilies and tall green and gold reeds grew at its banks. The sun filtered through the green tree boughs ahead and filled the little glade with green rays of light which lit up a haze which rested there. Rána crept nearer until he was lying on the bank, hidden in the tall grasses peering into the water. He could see nothing through the murky depths, but he felt certain it was very deep.

Then Rána froze. The surface of the water rippled, and the water-lilies danced on the surface. Several moments later, a head broke the surface. There was a woman – or a being in the likeness of a woman – swimming there. Rána's heart jumped. She was facing away from him, and her long golden hair floated up around her like a shimmering garment. Her long white arms stretched out in front of her, bare and sparkling as she swam to the far bank. She drew herself halfway out of the water and Rána saw, with a mix of awe and embarrassment, that she was naked. Her skin was white and smooth and utterly flawless.

She placed several water-lilies on the bank before sliding back into the water without a noise. She turned toward the direction of Rána's hiding place, and he caught a glimpse of her face before she slipped under the murky surface of the pool again. For a moment, Rána saw a face of surpassing fairness. The golden hair framed her oval cheeks like rays of sun. Her lips were full and rosy and her eyes were framed by dark lashes. Her neck was long and pale and bejeweled with water.

Rána waited for what seemed like an eternity for her to surface again, but she didn't. He started to fear she had drowned herself, but just as he contemplated going in after her, her head and shoulders came up out of the depths – inches from his face.

Her eyes were green like the water, flecked with gold like the willow leaves. They were young and yet old – near and yet remote. She reminded him of an elf, but she was not. There was an untamed wildness to her, subtly hidden under a calm exterior.

Rána felt his heart skip a beat, but he couldn't move, as if he were under a spell. She was all gold, glistening with water. She studied him for a few moments in silence – her eyes flicking back and forth, searching his eyes. At last, she smiled, baring shining white teeth.

"You are here sooner than we expected," she said, her voice smooth and low. "I am afraid you have caught me unprepared." Her eyes flickered.

"Who are you?" whispered Rána, every inch of him quivering.

"I am the River-Woman's Daughter," she said. "I am Goldberry."


	7. The Language of Water

Rána could only gaze on Goldberry's beauty. He had never before beheld a naiad – a spirit of the water. The elves had spoken once of them, but even they were unsure of their origin. They were ancient certainly – perhaps even before the coming of the First Born to Middle Earth.

Goldberry's sharp eyes continued to rove Rána's face. "What do you seek here, Rána Dúnedan?" her voice was low and murmuring like water itself.

Rána shook his head, "I do not know," he answered. "I came here looking for one called Tom Bombadil. Do you know him?"

"He goes by many names," answered the sprite. "Iarwain Ben-adar, Orald, Forn, and many more names, older and deeper. He was here first and he will be here until all else has fallen in the world. He is the Oldest, and he is the Fatherless. Before even the Valar entered Arda. Before Melkor cast his filth in this world. Before root and twig and River-Woman, He was here."

"I have heard the name Iarwain Ben-adar!" said Rána with surprise. "The elves speak of him with great reverence. And among my own kin, this is a name I have heard tell of, though I had supposed him to be a character of old tales."

"You do not listen to me," said Goldberry, in a low tone. There was warning in her voice "He is oldest. The tales of him are the first tales told. The elves know him as well as any may. But he will not leave his borders. The world has grown too vast for Tom. He is the Master, but it is not his world anymore but that of elves, men, dwarves, hobbits, and all other free-folk."

"You obviously know much of this Bombadil," said Rána. Her words filled him with awe, but his young and foolish heart made him skeptical of this naiad's words. "How came you to know him?"

Goldberry lifted a golden eyebrow, and her eyes glittered. "You believe not my tale?" said said. "I will tell you. But only because you are a young and untried, and do not know the foolish things you say.

"Tom caught me, you might say," she said. "Yes. Tom Bombadil came across me bathing in the lily-pools. No one has ever caught one of the Daughters of the River, but Tom did. I am Tom's counterpart in the care and keeping of hill and wood and water."

Rána laughed. "Certainly it could not be difficult to catch a Daughter of the River. Why, I quite successfully crept up on you only moments ago, and I do not think you knew at first I was here."

Goldberry laughed. It was like the tinkling of silver bells, but it put Rána on edge. "You silly youth," she said. "There is a very significant difference between catching something, and catching sight of something. You saw me. You did not touch me. If you had, without my knowing, it would have fared ill for you." She drew a long white hand out of the murky water and touched his face. It was as cold as ice and as strong as mithril. "Old Willow Man isn't the only force to reckon with in this wood."

They stared at each other a moment longer: Rána, lying on the bank among the reeds, and Goldberry, shoulder deep in the green lily-pool with her hair all afloat.

"Come," she finally said. "The Master is abroad among the trees. He has many songs to sing before winter gnaws root and bone. This was my last sojourn into the deep sacred lily-pools. You were fortunately to have come across me – if you believe in fortune."

With that, she disappeared under the water without a sound. Seconds later she emerged on the far side of the pool and walked out as if on a submerged stairway. She was clothed all in green. Her arms were bare and the long train of her gown rippled like water behind her. Around her waist was a girdle of flowers wrought in silver. Her hair seems to dry instantly and lay in long curling tresses upon her back and shoulders. She was barefoot. She turned to Rána (who had the sense to scramble to his feet) and stretched out a white arm to him.

"This way," she said smiling. Her face was now merry and bright. There was nothing left of the sharpness in her eyes or the lowness in her voice. She was all light and beauty and mirth. "There is much I may show you before Tom calls us back. Much that may be seen before the fall of night. And you do not want to be in the wood after nightfall." Then she turned, and with light fleeting steps, disappeared into the trees.

Rána dove in after her, part of him hoping that he would learn something from her, part of him fearing that she would lead him into a bog and leave him there. She remained at all times several paces ahead of him and always out of arms reach. Every once in a while she looked back at him and smiled. Through the forest, on a winding path that only Goldberry could see, Rána and the naiad passed almost silently. The Ranger's young skills were being honed and polished, and he was almost as silent as the woman in front of him. They melted from tree to tree with only a whisper, as if the wind were rustling gently through the leaves. None of the woodland creatures noticed their passing, and even the trees seemed unaware of their presence, or else let Rána pass in peace while in the company of Goldberry. He was so concentrated on keeping her within his sight, that he knew not where she led him, or indeed even in what direction they went. Finally, Goldberry stopped. They were standing at the bank of the Withywindle. She turned to face the young man. He stood in front of her – taller than her, but not by a great measure. She was tall like an elf maid but there was a willowiness to here which suggest more organic roots than even the elves.

"We will talk here," she said. "You may ask your questions, and I may answer some. I may answer some which you may not even ask. And I may not answer some which you do." She took his hands and drew him to the ground so that they sat facing each other with the river floating by next to them.

Rána sat but said nothing.

"Do you know where you are?" asked the water-wight.

Rána shook his head, and Goldberry pointed across the lazy brown water. There, on the western bank, surrounded by willows, and in a deep bank of willow leaves, was the oldest, most ancient willow Rána had ever seen. Its old grey trunk was thick and gnarled like the sinewy arms of an ancient hermit. Its thick roots stuck partway out of the ground and trailed like bony fingers into the water. Its tendril-like branches hung down to the ground and dragged lank in the river.

"That," said Goldberry, "Is Old Man Willow: the oldest and most dangerous tree in The Old Forest. His strength is green though his heart is rotten. His power surges through leaf and limb and root from the eastern end of the forest to the trees on the borders of Buckland. They are under his command, and it is Tom who keeps him from doing any terrible mischief. You are fortunate to have entered the wood from the Downs side. He is a mighty singer, Old Man Willow. Not many can escape his cunning lair. You are young and strong – you may have fared better than some, but we will never know."

"Why do you bring me here?" asked Rána, eying the ancient willow whose branches swayed with the gentle breeze.

"This is a good bank to talk on," replied Goldberry. "And Tom will pass this way on his way home. We may meet him here before nightfall and finish our journey together. As long as you are on this bank, Willow Man cannot consume you. And while you are with me, you are quite safe." She smiled, and for a moment Rána thought he imagined the strange gleam in her eyes which he had seen at the lily-pool.

"Now," said she. "Ask me your questions.

Rána sat for a moment. "How did you know my name? At the lily-pool. You said you were not expecting me so soon. How came you to expect me at all? Certainly none knew of my journeying here. None but Barad knew I would pass this way."

"Barad did not send word," said Goldberry. "But news has other means of travel. Birds and beasts, brook and stream. The Water tells me many things both light and dark. A babbling book carries many secrets which are lost to all who cannot interpret their words. We knew of your coming. Gandalf was also here, a month and a day ago, and said he asked you to look in on the Shire. I see this is not your desire."

"You see rightly," said Rána with a frown. "I do not see where the importance lies in the Shire. Hobbits have always seemed, well… insignificant in this dark world. I feel I would be more use fighting with the elves and my kin and driving wargs and orcs back in the mountains. Why must I be sent like a boy on an errand to the Shire where I am little better than a gardener looking after fragile flowers? I want to leave a mark in this world. I want to be of more use." Rána was alarmed with himself. His tongue had been loosed as he had rarely spoken to anyone before in his life.

Goldberry just looked at him, and there was a faint smile on her lips. "More use," she said. "Perhaps. But the insignificant things of this world are often the things which hold the remaining traces of goodness. The world around grows dark. Tom has shut himself in, and that is saying something. Is it not worth something to have a bright spot of light in the surrounding darkness? To preserve something which is yet untainted? If no one were here protecting her borders, the Shire would fall into that darkness sooner rather than later. A long time yet, perhaps, but not so long as you would not feel the consequences. The days of dark deeds and red sunrises will come. Spend time watching those absurd little creatures. Gandalf does nothing in vain, and his wisdom is far beyond the understanding of mortal men."

Rána hung his head. He knew she was right. But something inside him still longed for the sword and the bow.

"Do not be crestfallen," Goldberry said and looked hard at him. "Something else weighs deeply on your mind. Your brother, perhaps. You feel guilty for being left while he was taken. Do not be. I cannot foresee the future. The Waters do not tell such tales, but I guess he is not dead. That chapter is not yet closed."

Rána nodded. "I will find him someday – dead or alive, I will find him. But it is not him I think of."

Goldberry smiled knowingly. "She has not forgotten you either," she said.

Rána's head jerked up, but Goldberry smiled brightly and pulled Rána to his feet. "Enough of these dreary things!" she laughed. Daytime is for dancing and night is for the sorrow! Come, I will teach you some of the Water's language.

Rána was loth to touch the lazy brown water, but it was not to the river Goldberry led him. She took him along a narrow stream which fed the river instead. The water was clear and clean and babbled over a bed which was covered in many small, brightly colored stones. Rána completely lost track of the time as Goldberry told him many strange and wonderful things about the Water and its language. She spoke of oceans and rivers, lakes and pools, waterfalls and thunderstorms and all their different tales. Rána felt his heart leap on high when she spoke of faraway harbors of ships and storms and stars, and he thought he felt a glimpse of the love elves have for the sea. The naiad drew him into the water and he felt it run over his tired feet, swirling around his ankles with an aliveness he had never felt. She poured water into his hands and it sparkled and told him things he had never imagined about beginnings and births. He started to understand the River-words – even if only a little. Long into the afternoon and early evening Goldberry spoke to Rána of the Water.

As the sun dipped below the trees, Rána was brought back to conscious thought by a voice which came floating over the river:

Hey! Come merry dol! Derry dol! My darling!

Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling!

Down along under Hill, shining in the sunlight,

Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,

There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,

Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.

Old Tom Bombadil, water-lilies bringing

Comes hopping home again. Can you hear him singing?

Hey! Come merry dol! Derry dol! And merry-o,

Goldberry, Goldberry, merry yellow berry-o!

Poor old Willow-man, tuck your roots away!

Tom's in a hurry now. Evening will follow day.

Tom's going home again water-lilies bringing.

Hey! Come derry dol! Can you hear me singing?

Rána stood amazed for a moment before running down to the shore of the river. On a narrow path which wound into the trees, and from around the old Willow, bounded Tom Bombadil. His bright blue jacket and yellow boots shining in the waning light. His long brown beard bounced on his broad chest as he danced along the path. Rána did not have time to stand amazed at the strange Tom for long, for a clear voice – as clear as the water in the stream – broke out behind him in joyful ringing song:

Now let the song begin! Let us sing together

Of sun, stars, moon, and mist, rain and cloudy weather,

Light on the budding leaf, dew on the feather,

Wind on the open hill, bells on the heather,

Reeds by the shady pool, lilies on the water:

Old Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter!

So Goldberry sang out behind Rána, and Tom stopped directly opposite them and waved.

"What's this?" he cried. "My lady out after sunset? Strange sight indeed! Young Ranger needs a teaching and my lady's the one to teach! You found him wandering in shady pools, drowning in the river, eh? Young Dúnedan goes wandering in the wood alone? My Goldberry fished him out?"

Goldberry laughed. "He is early! We have spoken of many things concerning Water and her voice."

"Aye!" exclaimed Tom. "And none can teach it better than her daughter! But who's been getting supper laid? Shall we all go hungry? Young men can't go for long on nothing but river water and weeds!"

"I shall go along ahead of you," said Goldberry. See he doesn't lose himself again!" She turned to Rána with a smile. "Forget not the teachings you have received today. Few there are who can claim to have learned them from Tom's lady." With that, she sprang away through the trees as light as a bird and disappeared from sight.

"Come along my friend!" cried Tom. "Supper will be cold by the time we get there! Goldberry is a mighty runner!" Tom bounded down the path and Rána scrambled over muddy tree limb and root to keep up with him on the other side of the river. Rána soon came upon a fallen tree which spanned the width of the river and he ran across to the west side. With an effort he jogged along with Tom (who moved much quicker than his looks promised). The sun was set, and the darkness was increasing when Rána saw lights ahead in the trees. There was Tom's house, and Goldberry standing in the open door with light pouring out behind her to welcome them.


	8. On the Borders of Buckland

Rána quickly lost track of how many days and nights passed under the roof of Tom Bombadil and his golden lady. Tom told him many things: things of history and lore, things of nature and growing things, and things of darkness and of light. Without quite knowing when or how it came up, Rána found himself listening to Tom speak of the Halflings. He had much to say on the subject and seemed to echo Gandalf's high opinion of them.

"Some of the hobbits are quite as senseless as many of the bog folk," said Tom. It was evening and Rána reckoned he had been with Tom and Goldberry four nights (though he could not be sure). There was a bright fire on the hearth that smelled of applewood. No other light was lit. They had mugs of honey mead at their elbows and stools under their bare feet. Goldberry had gone to bed, and Rána and Tom were alone in the room. Tom stared into the fire and looked about ready to nod off. But he continued in a sleepy singsong voice: "Halflings dwell in bliss, in land unscathed by dark without. If all else falls, so will their land. The Shire will not withstand the night which crowds in. There is virtue there, and strength harder than _mithril,_ but can they stand alone? Who will protect those innocents if you do not? Who will preserve this world? Old Tom will not leave his wood – the world has grown too big and dark. I have my boundries and River-daughter too. This is now the world of Man." Tom glanced up at Rána who was staring at him in wonder, and his bright blue eyes glinted. "There is deep soil under their feet – a wellspring of courage which can arise at a moment's notice. There may come a day when much will depend on the courage of the Halflings." Then Tom fell silent.

Rána mulled these things over in his mind. "I will go to the Shire. I will see these Halflings. I will walk the borders and see what I may. Your words have moved me to shame. For many years my kindred have looked after those lands and regarded it as a noble calling. If your words of foresight be true, I would not disregard them. I shall depart in the morning. I have learned much here, Master. I thank you for your hospitality. I would that I could say farewell to your bright lady."

"Eh? What's that?" said Tom shifting in his chair. "Of course you will say your farewells to Goldberry. She would not let a visitor go without her blessing. Sleep well young Dúnedan. The night is shut out and your bed is waiting."

Rána got up and went to his bed. He glanced back for a moment and saw Tom staring deeply into the fire.

Rána woke early the next morning. The window was propped open and a fresh, wet morning breeze was rustling the curtains. He felt rested and ready for travel. His restless Ranger heart was ready for what lay ahead and he felt a sudden urge to see the Shire. Above what Tom had said to him, there was something deep in his heart which was stirring – an anxiety about the Halflings. He wondered if Tom's words had simply made him worried for the hobbits' wellbeing, or if there was something else deep inside which urged him to the Shire to take care of some unknown danger which was lurking near.

Whichever it was, Rána got up refreshed and ready for the road. He found a new cloak of grey-green laid at the foot of his bed, and his clothes were cleaned and his boots scraped of mug and wear. When Rána was dressed, he went and found breakfast laid out for him. His pack was in the corner by the door, packed and ready for travel. Tom could be heard singing like a lark outside the door and soon he came bursting in.

"All ready for the road!" he said. "Food is packed and extra garments too! I will set you on the right path and see that Willow Man doesn't bother you! Though you know the words to keep his songs to a murmur. You may not remember, but if the time should ever come, you will find them again and shrivel his roots! The heirs of the King will not be easily entrapped by old root and twig!"

Rána ate hastily for there was a rising sense of excitement and urgency in his heart and he longed to be on his way. As he rose and shouldered his pack, Tom clapped his hand to his head.

"Tom, you old fool!" he roared. "I've almost forgotten! I have found something which might be of use to you! I have been abroad this morning and robbed an old wight have I! They cannot keep all precious things to themselves forever! Much is buried in the Down which should never see the light, but some is buried which should be put to use. I have seen your sword and it is not befitting a Dúnedan! See what Tom has brought you!" at this, Tom pulled from next to the fireplace, a long Númenorean sword. Its hilt appeared to be black. There was a black gem set into the cross-piece and its scabbard was of black leather. Rána was in awe. Few of his Kin possessed such weapons of the Elder Days. He took the sword reverently and pulled it slowly from the sheath. It drew out easily, untarnished by rust or rot, but to Rána's horror, the black appeared as black as night. He cried out and let the blade fall, clattering to the wood floor.

"It was broken!" he cried out. "It was broken and buried with Túrin! I would not possess such an evil-fated blade!"

"What's that?" cried Tom. "Do you think this blade is Anglachel? It is not so! Nor is it its mate! Those blades were indeed lost to the betterment of the world. But come! Bring it outside and see."

Rána picked up the sword tentatively and followed Tom outside where was sun was shining on the dewy grass. He held the blade up and perceived that its blade and the gem laid in the hilt were not indeed black, but of the darkest midnight blue. The razor-sharp edge glittered as the sunlight glinted off it. It could not be Turambar's accursed blade, forged by the dark elf, Eöl or its mate stolen by son Maeglin.

"You see," said Tom. "There is no doom laid upon this blade. Rather, there is virtue written there. This is a great sword of one of the lost kings of men. Anarríma is its name, Net of Fire: named for one of Elbereth's constellations, put in the sky for the comfort of the First Born as they entered this world. And a sight it was as the stars first shone," he said as if to himself.

"You say there is virtue written here," said Rána newly amazed at the midnight blade. "But I can see none. The blade is smooth and clear of any mark."

"They are inlaid with _ithildin_ which mirrors only starlight and moonlight. And you must know the words to speak over them, but I do not know them to teach to you. But elvish secrets cannot be hidden from Old Tom. Tom was here first! But there is no time to teach you what the moon-writing says! You must find the words yourself! Girt yourself, lad. Be off. The day waits for no one."

Rána strapped the sword to his hip. It was lighter than he expected. With that, he and Tom set off down the path. Tom did not lead him by Old Man Willow, but rather on a different path through the trees making a line for Buckland. They had not gone more than a mile before Goldberry met them on the road. She as dressed all in pale green with a belt of golden leaves. Her hair was crowned with autumn flowers and her feet were bare. She smiled and opened her arms to them when she saw them.

"Farewell," she said to Rána. "Stray not from the path. Go straight to your goal. Wield Anarríma wisely, and it will not fail you. It was well-met, Man of the West. Forget not the teachings you have received in the home of Tom Bombadil."

Rána had no words but bowed low to her. Then she slipped to the side of the path and disappeared into the trees. Rána caught her eyes as she turned to him briefly, and they glittered sharply for a moment before she disappeared.

Tom set Rána on his path and told him to follow straight and not to listen to Willow-song. Rána thanked him for his hospitality and for that which he learned in Tom's home. Tom turned and bounded back down the path with many a "Hey! Derry-o!" and "Ho! Tom Bombadil!" and disappeared from sight.

Rána was utterly alone.

He walked for most of the day, eating up ground quickly on his long legs. It was well before nightfall when the trees started thinning. The trees had made almost no fuss at Rána's passing, whether because of some words Tom had sung to them, or that Rána was on a different path covered by a blessing. It was close to five in the evening when Rána broke through the last of the trees and saw the great Hedge looming up in front of him many yards away. The borders of Buckland. He had never been to the Shire. He had encountered plenty of hobbits in the Bree-Land. There were several families that had lived in Archet when he was a boy, but that seemed like a thousand years ago.

Rána had to walk south along the Hedge until he came to the gate. He was tentative about stepping into the open. From his vantage point, Rána had a clear view of the land in front of him. The Brandywine drifted by in the distance. With his sharp eyes, Rána could just make out where the Withywindle drifted out of the forest and joined the river away south. The twinkling lights of Buckland and Brandy Hall started shining out as the light began to fail.

As Rána sat, he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He turned quickly and saw something dodge into the cover of the Hedge. Creeping along the Hedge, and with a swift move, he plunged his arm into the Hedge and brought it out. In his grip was the squirming and trembling form of a young hobbit. Rána was always amazed at how small they were – especially hobbit children. This one could be no older than thirteen or fourteen years old. His soft brown eyes were shining with fear and awe. His curly brown hair was untidy and there was dirt on his ruddy face. Despite his fear, the hobbit child could not help but smile in fascination.

"Who _are_ you?" he gasped. "I've never seen a big person this close! And you are taller than any of them!" he was practically gushing with fear and pleasure.

Rána glowered. "Who am I?" he growled. He didn't like being sneaked up on. Hobbits were known for their ability to be completely silent, and it made Rána uncomfortable that one had been able to get so close. "I might ask the same question of you," he continued. "I don't like spies."

"I wasn't spying!" insisted the hobbit. "I am from Hobbiton! I am visiting my Aunt and Uncle at Brandy Hall! You are the one spying."

Rána had to admit to himself that this was true but he didn't let the hobbit go. "What's your name," he said.

The Hobbit puffed up his chest proudly. "My name," he said "is Bilbo Baggins."


	9. The Watch of the Shire

"What are you doing so near the Old Forest Master Baggins?" said Rána. The young hobbit amused him, and a slight smile crept onto his face. Perceiving this, Bilbo gained more courage.

"I wasn't going to go inside the forest. It's haunted they say," said the hobbit. "But I was trying to see if I could see elves! I saw one once, and I would dearly love to see one again and maybe talk to them."

Rána raised a brow in surprise. He never would have suspected a hobbit to be much curious about the doings of elves.

"And why do you wish to see elves?" he said, finally letting the hobbit go.

"Why?" exclaimed Bilbo with wide eyes. "Because they are wondrous fair folk, and I should like to learn a bit of their language, and maybe some of their songs and tales."

Rána cocked his head to the side and peered at the hobbit. He was clearly no more than five years Rána's junior, but there was something so innocent and childish about this Bilbo. The hobbits desire for knowledge of the fair folk, and an interest in a world much more closely connected with Rána's made Rána wonder if there were more hobbits like this lad. He had always thought hobbits rather dull and interested in nothing but dirt, beer, and food. Certainly that was their chief interest, but Rána wondered if Bilbo was simply an anomaly or if there were others like him.

"Are all hobbits this adventurous?" asked Rána. "Do all Halflings share your interest in the fair folk?"

Bilbo shook his head mournfully. "Not where I come from," he said. "In Hobbiton, the folk are all proper and don't meddle in the affairs of big people or elves. Over here though, in Buckland, people are a bit more adventurous. I like it over here. I am half Took, and that says a lot! And the Bucklanders often go into the Old Forest. Well, not often, but sometimes the bravest lads will. When I am in my tweens, I will go in. I'm not afraid!"

Rána chuckled wryly. "That is because you do not know what the wood is like."

"But you do" said Bilbo and his eyes grew suddenly wide. "Will you tell me what it is like? Who are you?" he added. "I have never seen a big person like you before. I thought they were all rather dull and stupid. But you don't seem that way."

"Dull and stupid?" said Rána raising a brow. "And I had thought the same about you. Perhaps we have much to learn of each other. But there is no time now to speak of it. Nor do I wish to stand in the open and talk. It was foolish of me to let myself be seen. You must swear to me that you will tell no one about me. Swear it, or I'll… send the wizard Gandalf to turn you into a slug and salt you."

Bilbo quailed but his excitement was evident. "You know Gandalf? He makes the most wonderful fireworks!"

Rána rolled his eyes. "Yes, and he has roasted the toes of many goblins with them," he said grimly, but Bilbo was not to be dismayed.

"Oh please tell me all about Gandalf and elves! And who you are!" he cried, but Rána shook his head and looked at the sky. The clouds were gathering over the fast-darkening heavens. The first stars were out, and the air was growing cool.

"There is no time. Your aunt will be wondering where on earth you are," he said. "Tell her nothing of our meeting. Perhaps we will meet again."

Bilbo shook his head dramatically. "I am leaving for home in the morning," he said.

"Then gather news for me there. Anything of interest. Keep your eyes and ears open for news of the outside world. I will come find you one day perhaps and will want all your news. Be my informant – my eyes and ears in your town. I will be in this part of the world for – I don't know how long – but I will not be seen or heard. I will find you. Now run along home and speak nothing of our meeting."

Bilbo was almost shaking with excitement. The prospect of being a spy for one of the big people was on the level of dragon-slaying in his young mind. Perhaps, had he been older and more prudent, he would have been a little more wary about selling inside Shire information to one of the big-folk. It was very fortunate for him that a Ranger employed him first.

Bilbo turned to go, but stopped and looked back at the dark figure of the Ranger huddled in an almost invisible shape by the Hedge. "Can't I at least know your name?" he asked, pleadingly.

Rána sighed. "You can call me Roper," he said at length. "I am a Ranger."

Bilbo made a funny face at the name (one of his school mates was named Roper, in fact) but he grinned and ran off into the night.

Rána watched until Bilbo reached the first of the twinkling hobbit holes before he got up. He didn't know why he asked Bilbo to collect news and information; he didn't need it. There would be nothing useful for him to learn on the inside of the Shire. It was the doings on its borders and beyond that he was concerned with. But there was something about the Halfling that intrigued him. He didn't want to lose touch with this little anomaly. He felt an urge to know more about hobbits. He could almost see Gandalf's eyes twinkling and telling him "I told you so".

For the next several weeks and into the end of autumn, Rána scouted out the borders from the northernmost end of the Shire to the southernmost end. He did not make his way west, toward Hobbiton, but stayed along the edge of the Old Forest. He gathered news from travelers along the borders: a few wandering dwarves and several of the big folk who occasionally went to Buckland to trade. The men were mostly Bree-landers and had little to tell – especially to an inquisitive Ranger. But the dwarves were a little more giving in their information. Though they were rough of speech and none too friendly, they were willing to speak to one of the Dúnedain for they knew a little of the Rangers and respected them as much as they would any man. Rána was also proud of bearing and stern and the dwarves saw in him something that he did not even see in himself.

The news that Rána gathered from them was not cheering. The mountains were becoming dark places. Orcs were increasing in number, though still not enough to worry about open attack. The Greenwood was becoming a darker and darker place, though, which was earning it its new name of Mirkwood. Rána recalled the months he had spent there fighting alongside the elves of Thranduil against orcs and fell beasts. He had seen some of the fair race fall there – never to come to the far green shores. He saw the king's son, Legolas, in his mind. They had become friends during their battles side by side. He had seen the fair face of Legolas twisted in pain as an orc arrow sunk into his back – not fatal, but grim. Rána grimaced. Once again he felt the need to travel to the aid of others and leave the petty watching of the Shire to lesser men. However, as November came to an end, and December moved in with biting chill, Rána was not called on by Gandalf or any of his kindred for help.

He had taken up residence in the southern part of the Old Forest. The trees rarely gave him trouble, and he rarely traveled deep enough into the wood to be in any danger of Old Man Willow. He had built a little hovel against the bowl of an old oak tree. It was well-concealed and quite comfortable – for a Ranger at least. He hunted in the woods and fished in the Brandywine – though only when absolutely certain that there was no chance of being seen. Since the hobbit had seen him looking in on Buckland, Rána had taken that as a lesson and redoubled his efforts at being invisible. However, despite the dangers of fishing in the open, he would not drop hook in the Withywindle, though it fed the same river he fished in.

Since he had left them in the Autumn, Rána had not seen Bombadil or his golden naiad. He wished to take council will Tom, but something always held him back from seeking out that fair dwelling. The feeling of urgency started growing stronger and stronger within the young ranger as December dragged on. He was tired of walking in the forest or traveling through the lands looking for something he did not know. He felt that danger was all around, but he had seen none of it yet. The peaceful existence of the Shire seemed untouchable by the darkness without. But as the Misty Mountains grew darker, and Mirkwood grew eviler, Rána felt his legs aching for longer distances.

It was on a dreary afternoon in mid-December and Rána was sitting in his hovel. He had a small fire burning, and he was eating a rabbit he had killed that morning. He had a large cloak laid over his shoulders, trimmed with wolf-fur. There was a silver brooch in the shape of a leaf and inlaid with a black gem clasping it at his throat. It had been a parting gift from Thranduil – a very fine gift since Thranduil was not the gift-giving type.

Anarríma was sitting, propped against the oak in its black scabbard. It had hardly been drawn since Tom gave it to Rána and then only when Rána drew it out to gaze at its midnight blue sheen. He wished desperately to know the words to unlock the things written there. In his mind, he had started to formulate a plan. He would go first to Rivendell in the Hidden Valley and seek out Elrond to decipher his blade, then he would travel to Mirkwood and fight with the elves. Then after that, perhaps if Gandalf wished, he would return to the Shire. But the interest in hobbits was cooling in his heart again. He had been in no contact with any Shire hobbit since his arrival, and even the memory of Bilbo was little more than a guilty feeling that he had abandoned him.

A barely audible rustle in the deep brush a way off in the forest brought Rána suddenly out of his thoughts. It was not the sound of any woodland animal for they made no noise. It was growing steadily closer so he knew it was not someone going into the wood. Whoever it was had come from the east. Rána threw off his heavy cloak and strapped Anarríma around his waist. Taking up his bow and pulling his deep hood over his face, Rána cautiously crept out of his hovel into the wood. The noise was north-east of him and he walked slowing in that direction. Away to his left was the border of the wood and outside that, the Hedge. They were a way south of Buckland and straight west was only sparse farmland. The southern point of the wood jutted out and Rána guessed that the traveler had only crossed through that narrow stretch of wood. Certainly they had not passed through the thick of the forest and come out unmolested.

Soon the travelers came into view and Rána lay flat on the ground – blending in with the underbrush around him. There, about ten yards ahead of him, came a small band of men. They were shorter than Rána but broad: flat faced and squint-eyed. They hair was wiry and coarse brown. They wore strange garb of hardened leather, studded with iron. Their heavy iron-shod boots trampled the forest growth, and they were heavily armed. They had thick short swords and cruel knives in their belts. They had no bows, but one had a short spear. They were a coarse, ill-favored, band – six in number, and Rána felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. He let them pass but stood up silently when they had and fit an arrow to his string while readying another. Then in a loud commanding voice he called out.

"Hail travelers! Go no further. Wherefore go you so heavily armed? What is your purpose in this land?"

Rána had scarcely said these words when the short spear came hurdling through the air at him, and he had to throw himself to the side to avoid being struck. He recovered as quick as lightening and let his arrow fly. It struck the man who thrown the spear in the neck, and he fell with a strangled cry. The rest of the men had swords drawn and were charging Rána who loosed his second arrow. It found a home in the belly of another man, and he doubled over.

Drawing Anarríma just in time, Rána met the blow dealt by what seemed to be the leader. The clash of swords rang through the forest. The midnight steel of Anarríma cut through that of the leaders as if it were flesh and not steel. The blade fell broken to the ground and before the man could recover, Rána had swept his head off with a single stroke. The other three men, at the sight of their dead captain, cried out in anger and rushed at Rána altogether. Rána cut down one with a slice across the chest and landed a bone-cracking blow to another, cutting down through collarbone and ribcage. The sixth man turned and ran through the forest, but a carefully place arrow dropped him. The second man Rána had shot in the stomach was lying on the ground several yards away writhing in agony. Rána frowned. He never shot to wound, and he cursed himself for not aiming truer. He approached the man and knelt at his side.

"Who are you?" he asked. "Tell me, and I will make your passing swift and painless. Why have you come to this land? Why did you attack me? I meant you no harm. Who is your master and from where do you come?" the man said something in a language Rána did not understand, but he guessed it to be cursing. Then, before Rána perceived what was happening, the man put a tiny knife he had had concealed in his palm to his throat and opened his own jugular with a swift motion. He gurgled for a moment as his blood choked him and he died.

Rána sat for a moment, too shocked with the unexpected events of the day to move. Anarríma was dripping red and lay next to Rána like a dragon fang – its first taste of blood in many lives of men. Its edges glittered sharply, seeming to savor the taste of blood. Rána wished he had been able to get information out of the men before he had slaughtered them, but in the heat of battle, he had thought only of killing.

"Well that was nicely handled," came a smooth feminine voice from behind him.


	10. Rána Goes West

Rána swung around to face the speaker. There, standing some ten feet from him, was Goldberry. Rána breathed a sigh of relief. She was smiling sweetly and watching him with a keen interest. She was clothes all in silver and blue like frost on a winter morning. There was a belt of silver, cunningly worked like the twigs of a naked tree about her hips. Her hair was still faintly yellow, but it appeared to have lightened almost to silver in the winter air, and it was crowned with holly leaves and berries. Her face was still as smooth and young as ever. Rána sucked in a breath at the sight of her and bowed.

"My lady," he said. "To what do I owe this pleasure? You must forgive me for appearing as I do, but I have just had a fight."

"Which you have seemingly won," said Goldberry looking to the bloody bodies. "It is will met again, Dúnedan. I have sought you out to bring you tidings. Tom is in the wood to the north – there has been trouble on the borders of the Downs which he must tend to. He had bidden me to bring you news. Gandalf has sent word that you are needed in the west of the Shire. He will not say what the exact trouble is, but he bids you go and join the elves of Lenwë who dwell near the White Downs. They often work side by side with your kin when there is need and, in return, the watchers of the western borders often go with them on missions of import. This is Gandalf's message: 'Go thither as swift as may be and meet up with the watcher of the western border, your kin. I ask you to stay until spring, at which time you must travel to Mirkwood where you are needed in the battles there. But do not come sooner! Barad is coming to take your place, but do not wait for his arrival. Leave now. Yours in haste, G.'" Goldberry fell silent and Rána pondered her words. They were grim words full of riddle – but that was Gandalf's way.

"I will go," he said slowly. "Sorely do I wish to leave for Mirkwood now, but I shall do as Gandalf wishes. Tell me, lady, do you know anything of these men that I have slain? I could get no information out of them."

Goldberry did not move close to the bodies strewn about, but her eyes roved over them. "I do not," she said. "They passed through the wood ere I came here, and the trees know nothing of them except that they are from the south." She shook her head. "There is no doubt they had ill intentions, but what those may be, I cannot say. But tarry no longer, Rána," she said. "Leave the dead. Holes cannot be dug in this frozen ground, nor are there stones enough to pile on top, but I think there will be no need for burial. I doubt they will be here in the morning. I will leave you now. May your journey be swift and may you meet no trouble on the road."

Rána walked to stand in front of the tall naiad. "You have taught me many things, lady," he said. "I have learned much from you which I have needed and used in the wild. And now you come with dire news and council. I am forever in your debt." She offered her hand with a smile and he took it and kissed it, and her icy cold skin on his lips made his mouth tingle and he felt as though he had drunk strong liquor.

Then she turned and melted into the forest as silently as she had come.

Rána stared after her until she was no longer in sight. Then he turned and picked up Anarríma from the ground and wiped the blade clean, returning it to its scabbard. Then he plucked his arrows out of the bodies and strode through the wood to his hovel. He was packed within an hour and, wrapped in his elven cloak and with his horse's saddle slung over his shoulder, he took to his road. Upon leaving the wood, about an hour into his journey, he whistled for his horse which he often left grazing in the open south of Buckland.

When his dark chestnut horse trotted up to him, Rána saddled his mount and slung his bags over the pommel. Then he leapt up and started the long ride around the southern end of the Shire, crossing the Brandywine. It would take him three days steady riding, and he intended on getting it over with quickly. He did not like riding in the open and, although most of the land he would be traveling on was open farmland with few dwellings and far spread out, he feared being spotted. He did not want his presence known or any questions asked of him.

There were many places where his path became difficult, and he had to pick his way through places finding spots for his horse to travel. They crossed many small rivulets and steep green slopes, mossy banks and thickly wooded lands. Winter was silent. It didn't rain during his journey, but the sun was thin and wan and offered little warmth. The ground was frozen, and while the little streams were not frozen, they were icy and clear as elf-crystal. Occasionally a biting wind would blow and Rána had to wrap his cloak tight about him. Elf weave is marvelous stuff and can keep out the most biting chill, but the wind stung Rána's keen eyes.

He saw no other living thing besides a few birds and deer, a red fox and several squirrels. He was careful not to pass over farmland where he would be seen, and no one heeded his passing. He admired the beauty of the South Farthing. Even in the dead of winter, there was a charm and warmness about it. The frost on the grass, the leafless trees glistening in the cold sun, the remnants of a light snow still lingered in the shadows of tree and thicket.

On the morning of his third day of travel, Rána dismounted and continued on foot. He wanted to watch his way carefully and he could do this better on foot. His goal was to find the ranger he was so meet with. Not knowing if he or the elves of Lenwë were expecting him, he went cautiously. He did not want to cause an unnecessary stir. He intended on finding news of them before they knew of his coming, and he started to comb the land thoroughly. Rangers and elves leave little mark upon the earth and Rána knew it would be a difficult task, but he continued on. At any rate, if he could learn nothing of them, he would arrive in the west of the Shire and set up camp and let them find him.

As he rounded the western edge of the Shire, near the borders of Hobbiton, he passed through a large expanse of wooded area. Not as large as the Old Forest, or even the Chetwood, But Rána was impressed at the thickness of the trees. He wondered if any elves dwelt therein. It was nearing noon and he had seen no sign of any Rangers or elves. Unsaddling his horse, Rána let him loose to find grass.

Rána settled himself against the bowl of a great oak tree on the hill which marked the edge of the wood. Far below and off in the east he could see where the dwellings of Hobbiton started. He ate a meager meal of dried meat and cheese and washed it down with red wine from a leather flask. He felt the warmth spread through his body. It was a special wine made by the rangers which contained a power to warm and revive.

A tiny crackle behind him brought him immediately to attention. He didn't make a move, but every muscle tensed in readiness. He loosed a long thin knife that he kept in his belt. A muffled voice came from behind him and to his left. "Move and die," said the voice. Rána made no move or any sign that he had heard the speaker and he kept perfectly still. He heard light footfalls drawing closer and heard the slight creak of a taught bowstring.

He could sense his watcher's doubt. In his elven cloak, his identity was hidden from view. In a flash, Rána rolled to his right and disappeared behind the trunk of the oak. He heard the twang, zing, and thud of the arrow as it buried itself deep into the ground where he had been sitting. In a moment, he was around the side of the tree and met his assailant face on. He was dressed in green and brown as a Ranger, though there were elven touches. The lower half of his face was hidden under a scarf with his hood pulled low. Rána could barely make out two sharp blue eyes from under the hood. The figure was tall and thin, but Rána was still a few inches taller. Without having time to ready another arrow, the man had dropped his dark bow and drawn a white knife of elvish make.

Rána perceived that this was the man he was searching for, but the idea of being shot at had infuriated him to the point that he needed revenge, and he rushed at the man. With his own long knife, Rána turned the blade of the Ranger and caught his assailant's thin wrist in his other hand. He grunted in pain as the other landed a swift blow to his side with a bony fist. With a crack, the man head-butted Rána who reeled back, seeing black spots in his vision. Recovering quickly however, Rána drove against the Ranger with his shoulder and knocked the man to the ground, landing on top.

He still had a firm grip on his assailants wrist and he twisted it until the elvish knife fell from the grip. There was something odd about this voiceless Ranger beneath him, and it took Rána several moments to realize what it was. Suddenly the truth dawned on him, and he snatches the scarf from the man's face. As he suspected – late though he was in the realization – it was not a man at all but a young women, maybe a year or so younger than himself. Her crystalline blue eyes blazed with anger and her pale cheeks were flushed. Rána noticed at once that she was exceedingly beautiful. Her mouth was full and set in an angry line.

"Let me up!" she spat.

"I think not," he replied. "Not until you tell me why you tried to kill one of your own."

"I did not intend on killing you," she frowned. "But you ran, and I had no choice. Let me up!"

Rána did not let her, but smiled grimly. "Who are you?" he asked. "There are no women Rangers – not on the field anyway. Why did you give me no sign?"

"I wanted to see you closer first. You are in my territory and none pass without my knowing. You looked suspicious."

"You had no word, then, that I was coming?"

"I had word."

Rána shook his head, "you are full on complications are you? What's your name?"

"Let me up."

"What's your name?" he insisted.

"Do you not know, Moon-Boy?"

Rána started and looked at her closely. Then his eyes widened. "Lórellin?" he gasped.


End file.
